  One evening Father Thrift was sitting by the brook, looking into the water. The bright silver moon made the night almost as light as day. Everything was quiet, except for a faint ripple of the water. Suddenly Father Thrift heard something go, “Splash-sh! splash-sh! splash! splash!” almost beside him. Then he heard a voice calling from the water. “Father Thrift,” it said, “you have never visited us. Won’t you take your canoe and come now?” And Father Thrift, looking into the water, saw that it was Mr. Beaver who was calling. “Thank you, thank you, Mr. Beaver!” replied the queer little old man. “I will accept your invitation with pleasure.” And soon the two were making their way through the water to the place where the beavers were building their home. And where do you suppose that was? On a nice sunny hill? Or in the shade of the trees? No, no! Instead, it was in the middle of a pond which the beavers themselves had made by building a dam of mud and sticks. The beavers’ house was made of mud and sticks mixed with stones. Or, rather, it was being made. The beavers were still working at it. “My, my,” said Father Thrift, “how very, very late you beavers work! Don’t you ever rest? “I know you are very industrious. Nearly everybody knows that, as there is a familiar saying among us that an industrious person “We don’t,” replied Mr. Beaver. “We work only at night. All of our work is done then. And I am ashamed to tell you that there are some beavers who do not wish to work at all.” “So!” exclaimed Father Thrift. “I am surprised at that. And do they live here, too?” “Oh, no,” said Mr. Beaver. “We have no place for lazy beavers, or ‘old bachelors,’ as we call them. Usually we cut their tails off and chase them away.” “That is punishment enough,” said Father Thrift. “Still, lazy folks deserve no better. Wasting time is just as bad as wasting food, or money, or anything else.” Then Father Thrift stopped to watch the interesting and wonderful ways of the wise beavers. Some of them dug mud out of the bottom of the creek. Others cut sticks from bushes and trees with their big chisel-edged teeth. By biting out chips, one by one, a beaver can easily cut down a large tree. The mud and sticks for their house and dam they carried against their breasts as they swam, holding them there with their forefeet. Then they would put the sticks in place and press the mud down. Their tails they used only for swimming. But, then, those big, strong tails make fine propellers. “You are building a very large house, it seems to me,” remarked Father Thrift. “Yes,” replied Mr. Beaver. “But you must remember that several families of beavers live in the different rooms of this house.” “Just so, just so,” said the queer little old man. “I suppose that you find your house comfortable. But isn’t it rather damp?” “In some parts, yes,” admitted Mr. Beaver. “But in the center of our house we have rooms above the water. “Of course, as you know, we cannot climb trees like a squirrel. Neither can we burrow like a cottontail rabbit. But in deep water we are safe. “We enter and leave our homes from beneath the water, unseen. And when we “I have been told that your food is chiefly the roots of the common yellow water lily,” said Father Thrift. “What do you do in the winter when the pond is frozen and there are no lily roots to be had?” “Oh,” said Mr. Beaver, “we eat the bark of trees, too—mostly poplar, birch, and willow. But, as the ice prevents us from getting to the land in winter, we should not have even that to eat if we did not cut a supply of sticks in the summer time. “These we throw into the water opposite the doors of our houses and leave them there for the winter, for bark is good beaver food.” Father Thrift nodded. But on his way home he could have been heard to say: “Wise little animals! Always working. Always saving. Always having.” |
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